My Golf waits, throbbing, on the side of Umgeni Road. The night is blacker than normal with the yellow half-moon hidden behind drifting cloud. It’s three in the morning and the wide, dark road is almost deserted except for the occasional taxi filled with drunken passengers. Karlos’ hands are clenched around the steering wheel and his eyes are glued to the rear-view mirror. A white Datsun pick-up pulls up alongside him. Loud rap music pulses out into the dark night as the passenger winds down the window. Despite the blackness of the night, he’s wearing dark glasses and a blue cap.
Karlos hands him a brown envelope. ‘She drives a red BMW. The registration and address is in here and so’s your money.’
The passenger rifles through the envelope before giving the driver a nod. The pick-up squeals off into the night, and Karlos swings the Golf into a squealing U-turn and speeds back towards the north side of the city.
So much for Fletcher following him. Karlos is so many steps ahead.
***
I watch Elsa alone in her kitchen. Those men could try and get her now, or it could be this evening, or tomorrow. I need to make her aware of the danger and I need to do it now. I move in beside her. Her eyes glaze over as I take us back in time, pleading silently that she’ll be open to my counsel and not let her cynicism cloud her judgement.
I’m sitting in Mom’s lounge with the Daily News spread out in front of me and a glass of Chardonnay in my hand, pointing indignantly at the front-page article.
‘They just drove alongside, pulled them out of the car and shot them, right in front of their kids, and then left the kids alone and screaming on the N2 with the bodies of their dead parents,’ I slap my hand down on the page. ‘It’s beyond belief. The kids are only two and six. It’s enough to make me want to emigrate.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Liss. What we need to do is stamp out the criminal element and sort out the poverty, not run away.’
Mom is sitting in her usual armchair, her legs tucked to the side and a large glass of wine in her hand. She takes a slurp before turning to Elsa. ‘Ja, Elsa, but how will we do that? Things have got out of control far too quickly. Yvonne says the farmers are being murdered in their hundreds. It’s like a bloody genocide. This is not what your Dad died for.’ Mom’s fingers tighten around the stem of her glass.
‘Joburg’s rife with it and just now it’ll come to us.’ I put my head in my hands and give a small sob. ‘I just don’t want any of us to be shot in our own cars like Dad, Elsa … Please.’
I feel her hand on my back. She gives me a squeeze. ‘I know, Liss. It brings back horrible memories, I know.’
‘Oh God, I can still smell the blood, Elsa, still see it pouring out of him. It was so awful, so awful.’ I hiccup from crying and take a big glug of wine.
‘Shh,’ Elsa puts her finger to her lips and looks at Mom.
I try and swallow down my tears to stifle the sobs.
‘Lissa’s right,’ slurs Mom. ‘I want you girls to get out. Go and look into Australia or New Zealand, even England, anywhere but here. I can’t have them shoot you too.’ Her voice rises to a crescendo.
‘Stop it,’ says Elsa with a set face. ‘Dad fought for justice and we need to see that justice is maintained. We don’t need to flee at the first sign of trouble; what we need to do is tackle it. It’ll get better once Mandela’s in power.’
‘Just be careful, Elsa. Please be careful. I don’t want them to hijack you.’
Elsa jerks out of the shared memory. Her eyes flit around the kitchen and she snatches at a flyaway strand of blonde hair. She glances at the clock and then at her car keys which lie on the counter. She pushes back her stool and goes into the bedroom. I hear the click of a key in the bedroom safe. I watch as she takes out Greg’s gun. She checks the gun for bullets and clicks down the safety catch. Back in the kitchen, she puts the gun in her bag and picks up the keys. Once in the car she takes out the gun and leaves it resting between her thighs with the barrel facing towards the floor. She locks the car door and checks all her mirrors before pushing the remote for the gates to open. She screeches out of the drive.
Elsa steers the BMW to the end of her road and out into wide expanse of Northway Road. Her eyes flit regularly to her rear-view and side mirrors. My tension eases. She’s completely alert. All she needs to do now is stay that way.
A white Datsun pick-up squeals out from a side road just behind Elsa. Her eyes flick to the rear-view mirror. It’s the same two men. They haven’t wasted any time. The pick-up veers to the right and accelerates to overtake her, but Elsa pre-empts their move and puts her foot flat, lurching the BMW in one powerful, purring spurt away from them. She hurtles on towards a Ford Focus driving at the speed limit and hesitates for a second before taking a gap in the oncoming traffic and squealing out to pass it. The pick-up blasts its horn at the Ford which pulls to the side to allow it past. Drivers in the oncoming traffic widen their eyes in fear, aware that something is going down between the two cars which continue screaming down the wide, tarred road like two out-of-control scale electrics.
I watch Elsa approach the traffic lights by Lagoon Service Station. The light has turned red and a snake of cars crosses in front of her; there’s no way she can jump the lights without hitting one of them. I see the two men look at each other and laugh. The driver puts his foot down as the pick-up roars forward. My spirit turns numb as I watch the passenger push back his baseball cap and lean out of the window, hands cupped around the firearm and the barrel pointed directly towards Elsa’s car.
‘No …’ I scream, ‘no …’ as Dad’s bloodied body rises back into my mind, forcing the iron smell of blood into my nose and throat and making me retch. I shake my head violently to chase away the memory and surge towards the side of the pick-up where the hijacker leans out, his elbows pulled back in a triangle and his hands still cupped around the 9mm in an iron clasp. The driver slows down to let him steady his aim.
My breath freezes in my throat as I see the barrel inch down until it’s vertical with the back of Elsa’s rear window and directly in line with the back of her blonde head. I lurch forward and spin to face the pointed barrel with its vibrating molecules of steel. ‘Please God … no …!’
The firearm explodes in a flash of light and noise. A resounding crack thunders through the still morning air. The bullet has whooshed through me so fast I didn’t even see it. Cars on the opposite side of the road swerve madly before accelerating away from the violence. Time stands still in the petrol station, the attendants and customers frozen in a tableau of expectant fear.
I turn my head towards Elsa, but she’s no longer in front of me. She’s already squealed sideways into the service station and is careering down the road in the direction of the vast Indian Ocean in a red blur.
‘Ukudubula wena. Ukudubula, you fucking stupid …,’ shouts the driver, punching the passenger on his shoulder. ‘How can you miss?’ He veers sharply to the side, almost colliding with a Fiat and jolting its young woman driver into white hot shock, before screeching away in the same direction as Elsa.
The hi-jacker removes his sunglasses with a shaking hand. His eyes are wide with terror. He brings the arm holding the dangling firearm back in and sits, shivering, his body a jellied mess. He shakes his head and moves his hand across the barrel of the gun, ‘‘Haibo, that one is no good, no good. There is muti there … bad muti,’ he croaks, while the driver glares sideways at him.
The wail of a siren shrieks through the air. The driver eyes the rear-view mirror. Two police cars, blue lights flashing, are racing towards them. ‘Fucking police now,’ he shouts. He squeals the pick-up into a sharp U-turn and races back along the road, forcing his way into the snake of traffic which has suddenly baulked and pulled to the side. The bumper of the pick-up smashes into the front fender of a Mercedes and continues on in the middle of the road while cars on both sides swerve out of his way. The police cars follow fast behind with their sirens screeching. I close my eyes and offer up silent thanks.
When I look back at Elsa she’s pulled over to the side of the road and is sitting with her head collapsed forward onto the steering wheel. Her right hand rests trembling on the gun still lodged between her thighs while her chest heaves. ‘Fuck,’ she whispers to herself, ‘fuck, that was close. Too close.’
Someone knocks on her window and she fliches, her hand flying automatically to the gun. A middle-aged, suited man motions for her to wind down the window. She opens it a fraction and looks up at him with wide eyes.
‘Are you okay?’ His eyes show concern and his voice is kind. ‘I saw what happened. Don’t worry, the police are on their tail. I just wanted to check if you’re okay.’
Elsa swallows and gives a small nod. ‘I’ll be fine, thank you. I just need to sit for a bit and breathe.’
The man looks at her a while longer and then gives a half-smile. ‘As long as you’re sure you’ll be alright?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She winds up her window and lets out a long, shuddering sigh before leaning her head back against the leather headrest and closing her eyes. I move in next to her. Her nose twitches and she opens her eyes to stare at the empty passenger seat. Her chest is still moving rapidly. My poor sister, she doesn’t deserve this. I shake my head to push away the memory of the gun aimed at Elsa’s head. I don’t know what that killer saw or felt, but thank God something put him off his aim.